Trained by Sansa Rayne

Chapter 9

Manhattan is a fucking mess. Reports of gunshots and small fires have the police deploying everywhere. Sirens can be heard coming from all directions. Helicopters hover overhead. Snarled traffic blocks dozens of streets, despite the authorities’ efforts to redirect people away. I’ve never seen so many cops.

Everyone knew Anarchy, Inc. would strike again — now they have. This has to be them. They might not be the only group capable of organizing such an attack, but this is the third time in a row I was somehow involved. First Hamza Bin Khaled, then Waterston and Thor — now they take Kate. I’m the connecting thread. This has to be about me.

Taking her out to dinner at Ennio’s was brilliant of me. I painted a target on her back. Do they really think I care about her? Did they calculate that they could hurt me by abducting her? As much as I’d like to keep Kate around, I’d trade the fun of tormenting her for a resolution to a threat on my life. Revenge is a luxury of the living.

I’ve always hated the city, so credit where it’s due: Anarchy has unleashed some serious chaos here, and it’s fucking beautiful. If they weren’t my enemy, we might even get along.

But now they’ve fucked up. They might be professionals, but they’re not omniscient: they probably didn’t know Kate had not one but three tracking devices under her skin. They just crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. My motorcade of all-black Crown Victorias, indistinguishable from unmarked police cruisers, has stayed in pursuit. We hold far enough back that they can’t see us, but we never let them get too far ahead. There’s no need to keep them in sight visually, as long as Kate’s trackers keep us updated.

“They’ve stopped,” says Nick. “A warehouse in Vinegar Hill.”

“All units, close in immediately,” I say.

Now Anarchy, Inc. is going to find out what happens when you fuck with Anton Ford. Between our eight vehicles, we have thirty expert mercenaries fully-armored and packing assault rifles. They’re never going to see us coming.

“Remember, I want to interrogate the leader,” I add. “Twenty million dollars for everyone you take alive.”

It’ll be money well-spent. What’s the point of having hundreds of billions of dollars if you don’t use it for the things you really want?

My vehicle hangs back from the rest, but I can follow video feeds from the lead cars on my tablet. They round a bend, heading for the waterfront.

“Intercept ahead. Get ready,” Nick says, spotting the warehouse. It looks abandoned: windows busted, siding rusted and tagged by vandals from top to bottom.

Perfect. We should be able to take them without a lot of public attention.

“That’s it. There’s the van,” announces Nick. “Form a perimeter, block it in.”

Our cars split up and swerve to the right and left, creating a barrier two cars deep between the building and the road. A van that size could theoretically plow through the line, but there’s not enough space to pick up the speed it would need.

Tapping my tablet, I activate the loudspeaker on the lead car.

“Come out now with your hands up or we’ll shoot.”

I flip apps to Kate’s tracker — she should be inside.

Do they think we’re here to rescue her?

Come on, you fuckers. Try to use her as a bargaining chip — it won’t end well.

However, no one responds.

“Is Atwood alive?” Nick asks.

I nod.

“Her vitals are nominal. Steady pulse. She’s awake and alert.”

“Maybe they left her?” he suggests.

Fuck.

“They could have scanned her for tracking devices,” I admit. “If they stopped when they realized they were being tracked and bailed out, they’ll be on foot. They couldn’t have gotten too far. Alert the NYPD and FBI that the suspects are here in Brooklyn.”

As much as I wanted to catch them myself, there’s no way we can search the borough on our own.

“All units, get out and scour the area. Someone check the van and bring me the hostage.”

The mercenaries spill out of their vehicles, rifles drawn. Moving in a line, they quietly approach the van like an army platoon.

By the time I see the van’s side panel sliding down, it’s too late. Two chain guns open fire the instant their line of sight is clear.

I duck, sinking to the floor of the car. Bullets smack against the armor panels and shatterproof glass, and for a second I’m back in Saudi Arabia. Except, this time we’re not under fire from distant snipers. A tempest of hot lead shreds the mercenaries to pieces. On my tablet I see a ghastly dance, bodies jerking as gusts of red explode outward. Some of the men shoot back, but it’s like spitting at a tsunami. The chain guns roar, pouring rounds into men and vehicles, stopping only when their ammunition belts run out.

My ears ring in the short-lived silence. After a few seconds, the handful of mercenaries who took cover in time peak out and open fire on the van.

“Stop!” I shout through the tablet. “Stop! You’ll kill the girl. Get in there and bring her back!”

“Are you okay, sir?” says Nick.

He lived.

Good. I’d hate to have to train another assistant so soon.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

I have never been so fucked up.

Only three of the mercenaries are still standing. Twenty-seven dead. It’s a fucking massacre. There’s no hiding this. Fucking shit.

“We’re clear,” a survivor reports. “She’s here, unharmed. And you’re going to want to see this, sir.”

What now?

I get out and march through the carnage. I’m not squeamish, but it’s gruesome. To not step in the worst of it, I have to watch my footing — I have to see all of it. Everything smells of gunpowder and iron. I scream when one mercenary grabs my ankle despite two gaping holes in his chest. He looks up at me, a desperate plea in his eyes. If he lives another minute, it’ll be a miracle. I kick his hand away and keep going.

“There’s a live one over there,” I mutter to the men standing outside the van. “Put him out of his misery.”

“Yes, sir.”

When I get inside, I find the chain guns are sealed behind a clear enclosure several inches thick. Robotic mechanisms are built into the triggers. The guns were fired remotely.

This was a trap, and I walked right the fuck into it. Kate was the bait.

She mumbles through the tape on her mouth. They left her hogtied on the floor. Why not kill her? Did they not want to? Do they have some other use for her?

I rip the tape off her mouth.

“You’re going to tell me every single thing they said and did. Is that fucking clear?”

“Yes!”

Fuck!

I take in the rest of the van, noting the monitors, which show aerial views of our surroundings. Whoever they are, they have some serious resources. I’m still studying the readouts, looking for some clue about their identity, when the screens shut off at the same time.

There’s a camera above them — they know I’m here, in the van. It occurs to me that I could have just made a terrible mistake — a bomb hidden in this van would kill me. But, they could have taken me out back in Saudi Arabia and did not. Is that not their goal?

Is this a fucking game to them? If they really are anarchists… I would have to grudgingly respect them. If Jamison Hardt built mankind’s most powerful secret empire, and my takeover was history’s greatest heist, then my foe would be the king of all matadors — taunting a god and risking his horns.

A message appears on the screen, big white letters on a black background.

Hi Anton.

Is this a recording? Are they listening to me now?

“What should I call you?”

Death.

What a freak.

“I won’t insult you by asking what it will cost to make this stop. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

Anarchy.

I sigh.

That’s real helpful.

“What do you want from me?”

Fear.

“You’re tempting fate, whoever you are. I will find you.”

We’re not afraid. Are you?

I don’t have a smart answer to that, and before I can think of one the screen goes blank. After another second, circuits crackle with electrical fire and smoke starts to pour out.

Fuck!

The van’s self-destructing. I grab Kate, sling her over my back and carry her out.

“Get an extinguisher!” I shout at my mercenaries, but it’s too late. Fires catch from numerous compartments in the vehicle. Within a minute the blaze rages, destroying whatever evidence might have been found inside. Though, considering the competence of these people, I doubt we would have found anything.

I free Kate’s ankles so she can walk but leave her hands cuffed. She takes long, deep breaths as I guide her through the mess of dead bodies. Once we’re back at my car, I call for clean vehicles to pick us up. The Anarchists could still be watching.

A quick examination shows no obvious injury to Kate; she’s shaken up, but there’s no blood on her. Thanks to thick covers protecting the chain guns, the noise didn’t even hurt her hearing.

“Talk, Kate. Start from the beginning. Leave out nothing.”

She looks down at her lap, expression blank. Is she traumatized? She’s been through some tough situations and survived them. She’s even been taken captive before, and she’s spent months in her own personal hell. I suppose she’s never seen two dozen dead mercenaries before — that could affect anyone, even a person with Kate’s mental fortitude.

“Kate, if you’re dealing with some shit you need to straighten the fuck out right now. I’m not in the mood.”

“Your people were walking me to the car. Then someone shot them,” she says. “Then the men in the van grabbed me.”

She’s left out the part about not exiting from the loading dock — has she not figured out the fire there was part of the plan? Whatever, it’s not important.

“Go on.”

“They drove me here,” Kate continues. “They said they weren’t going to hurt me, that this was about someone else.”

How chivalrous of Death.

“What did they say about the Masters?”

“Nothing.”

It’s impossible to believe Anarchy, Inc. doesn’t know about us. They killed Timo and Lincoln with the weapons they stole from me, then used Kate to ambush me. That’s no coincidence.

“How many were there?”

“Three. Maybe four. They blindfolded me. I didn’t see. And they used voice synthesizers.”

As expected.

“What else did they talk about? Anything. Chatter, any code names they used — I want all of it.”

She hesitates a moment, then looks up at me.

Kate says, “They asked me to give you a message: they knew you were using my show to draw them out, so they turned your plan around to trap you instead of them. They said they’re not stupid, and that’s why they’re winning.”

I have half a mind to strangle her, just to spite them. I could even pin her death on them — but that would be a waste. She can help me do more damage to Anarchy, Inc. alive than dead.

“Did they even check you for tracking devices?” I ask.

“No.”

I bash my fist into the car’s side.

Where the fuck did these people come from? Did I do something to them? And how could they know about the Masters? Everyone who knows we exist is either dead or under my control.

But are they all dead?

That same stupid, nagging doubt: this is Ingram’s doing. It’s not possible, though: I shot him, and then the bomb we planted on his private jet took out his most trusted operatives. They’re gone.

No bodies were ever found. Like Simon Wilson’s.

Kate shrinks back as I pound the car door, bruising my knuckles until they’re bloody. When I run out of gas, my chest heaving for air, I turn to her.

“Kate, who were they? Who did this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“They had on motorcycle helmets!” she cries. “I didn’t see them!”

“Is that how they got away? Motorcycles?”

“I. Don’t. Know! I was in here, blindfolded!”

Dammit! Fucking dammit!

“How long did they stay here after parking the van?”

“They got out right after parking,” she says.

They must have had another vehicle here waiting for them. If they’re really smart, they would have had multiple sites prepared for this attack, depending on where the police chase from LPN led them. They obviously have the intelligence and resources.

“Nick! Have you gotten any word about where they went?”

“No,” he says.

I sigh, wincing as my hand aches.

They’re long gone. We never would have had a chance of catching them — not today, anyway.

“Get me on a jet,” I tell him. “I want to be out of this fucking city in thirty minutes.”

—

Nick gets us to the airport safely; whatever future plans Anarchy, Inc. has for me, they’re apparently giving me the rest of the day off.

“Take Kate to the bathroom,” I tell Nick as we prepare for takeoff. “Have her clean up and get ready to go on camera.”

By the time we’re in flight, the madness in New York has mostly subsided — the fires have been doused and the traffic has cleared. However, details about the shootings have come out: not just my mercenaries in Brooklyn — which has been dubbed the Brooklyn Massacre — but also Kate’s guards right outside LPN. Witnesses saw her get taken. It’s all over the news. As far as the world is concerned, she’s still missing. That’ll have to be addressed immediately.

I make the arrangements in the air, penning the script myself. Death may have a plan — and I’m sure it’s a very good plan — but I own this whole fucking planet. It’s time to remind him of that.